


Goldfinger

by WhenLifeGivesYouLemons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dark Sansa, F/M, James Bond References, Older Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7053166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenLifeGivesYouLemons/pseuds/WhenLifeGivesYouLemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lannisters, one of England’s wealthiest and most respected socialite families, use their public position and fame as a façade for a crime organization that reaches into the highest ranks of government. They have operated behind the scenes for decades, quietly influencing politics on the national and international stage.</p>
<p>Sansa Stark’s family was killed by the Lannisters when she was only a child. Growing up in a series of foster families, she was recruited by the British Secret Service when she turned 18, where she trained in the arts of intelligence gathering and deception, motivated by one thing only – vengeance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stark. Sansa Stark.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being a long-time reader (especially of Petyr/Sansa!) this is my first time posting. Any feedback and comments are very welcome!

Sansa stared across the desk at the older man, trying to hide her disdain. Even after all these years he still thought he could blindside her. She had come to the British Secret Service later than most, it was true – but she had thrown herself into her lessons as a trainee with a fervour only found in those who are on their second chance. And while she may never be a master at hand-to-hand combat or a perfect shot, she had proven herself with her intelligence and intuition, having a natural grasp of national and international politics and an almost clinical ability to read emotions.

They had taken a risk by choosing her. And despite her unconventional background, the risk had paid off. Sansa was primed to become an excellent spy and she knew it. 

Now, if only M would recognize it too. 

“Stark, if you are unhappy with your posting I can have you transferred to another department.”

“Sir, with all due respect,” Sansa replied, “I don’t want another job pushing papers. I want a field assignment.”

M sighed and picked up the fountain pen laying across his desk, tapping it absent-mindedly. A sign he wanted this conversation over yesterday. She’d have to argue her case well, and soon.

“I’m the only trained field agent in my graduating class who has not had a single field mission, Sir,” she continued. “I’ve been in three temporary desk jobs in the last year because no one will hire a field agent at the beginning of their career into a meaningful office position. You and I both know my skills are being wasted.”

At this M looked back up at her. She could tell he was mentally conflicted, trying to decide what to tell her. She just waited – she had learned long ago that silence was more persuasive than words.

“Sansa,” he said, and if she was surprised at his use of her first name she didn’t show it. M rarely got personal, so whatever came next she had to take full advantage of it. “I recognize your skills. Believe me, I do. But the Secret Service has been under a lot of scrutiny lately, and I can’t risk putting… unconventional… agents out in the field. If the public found out they would attack us for lowering our standards, for risking national security…” he trailed off. Sansa said nothing still, however she was no longer impassive. She was angry, and she knew it showed at she glared at her director. If this was the crap he was going to give her…

But then his eyes shifted, and she knew this wasn’t the whole story. He looked… guilty? Ashamed? And suddenly she felt her stomach sink, her confidence cracking, just a bit. 

But she wouldn’t show it. He still wasn’t looking at her. “M,” she sighed, softening her tone. “Tell me the truth.”

He was silent for a while. Sansa focused on keeping her breathing steady.

“You’ve been dedicated to the Service since you’ve started here, Sansa,” he started finally. “Hell, more dedicated than most students recruited younger than you. You have shown incredible potential. But when your file was being reviewed for your first field assignment ( _so he had submitted her name for a posting, she thought_ ), your… history raised a few questions.” 

_Fuck, not this again_. “Sir, I was young – when you first recruited me I agreed to put that behind me…”

“Not that,” he waved his hand irritably. “Your personal conduct before joining the Service is of little consequence, and easily hidden from public scrutiny.” Now M put his pen down and put his elbows on his desk, leaning towards her as he fixed her in his gaze. Here, finally, was what she had been waiting for.

“You know as well as I do that the biggest security threat to our country is within our own borders,” M had his full attention on her now, almost seeming to will her to understand. “Our field agents come back to us, reporting suspicions that even international incidents have their origins in Britain. And everything we have points towards the Lannisters – we find ourselves having to conduct investigations on one of the oldest, wealthiest, and respected families in Britain, indirectly and as indiscreetly as possible, as smothered as we are in public scrutiny. If word got out we were trying to take down the Lannisters…” he sighed once more and leaned back, looking out the window. “The Secret Service as we know it would be finished…” Another sigh. Sansa had rarely seen M so discouraged. “Sansa, your skills are exactly what we need right now. But while our top priority is national security, the subtext from government is to do to whatever we have to while saving our public face…

All of our missions right now revolve around the Lannisters. But no matter how much we need you right now, I can’t put you on one of those missions because you are a Stark.”

So this was the ball drop. Sansa felt a surge of emotions – anger, confusion, a hint of fear – but the one that registered on her face was shock, as close to neutral as she could keep it under the circumstances. 

“What does my name have to do with it?” she countered, probably letting too much of her anger colour her words. After all that she’d done, for herself, for the Service, it was her name holding her back? They were willing to forgive her past… activities, but not her name? “My oath to the Crown should be proof enough that I’ve abandoned my family allegiances. Sir,” she spat out indignantly. 

“They are worried about public support, Sansa," his words rushing to calm her. "True impartiality is rare, even among agents. Involving a Stark in a Lannister mission could be seen as taking sides, and in the worst case scenario, any intel you gather against them may not stand up in court if a defence lawyer can suggest you are biased.”

Sansa took a moment to recollect herself. As much as she hated to admit it, there was truth in his statements. More than he knew.

“What am I supposed to do then, Sir? I’ve spent the better part of a decade training for a career I can’t have.”

“I know, Sansa. If it hadn’t been for this whole public accountability fiasco… Well, it would be different.” He paused and warily stared at her, seemingly levelling her up. “However, there is one thing we can do…”

_If I get one piece of good news today_ … Sansa thought. She had long ago given up praying, but she thought maybe this moment was as close as she would ever get. 

“This would be a permanent thing, by the way – if you do this you can’t go back. And you couldn’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Keeping secrets is our forte, Sir,” she replied wryly. 

“Indeed," he replied with eyebrows raised. Then he continued, suddenly business-like. "I have a contact in Q division. He has informed me that he can infiltrate our systems and access your personnel file, under the radar. If you choose, he can alter your record, showing you’ve been discharged due to medical unsuitability for service” – Sansa’s eyes widened, but he held up a hand – “and create a new identity for you. One you will use for the rest of your life.”

Sansa was speechless. Adopting a new identity had been part of her training - but she had never thought she would need one to hide from her own country. Her own government. Her own people. 

“Of course, this would mean you’d have to spend a significant amount of time in the field before you could reapply for desk jobs,” M said with a hint of a smile. “We couldn’t have anyone recognize you as Sansa Stark. After you’ve had a highly successful field career there will have been enough turn over that no one will recognize you anymore.”

“So I would still be an agent? How will no one notice there’s a completely new record…?” Sansa began, but M just shook his head. 

“I’ve already sorted out all the details with my contact. He’s a prodigy, and I don’t understand half of what he says, but it’ll work. For your first few missions you’ll report directly to me, then after you’ve got a few under your belt no one will question your training record. We have so many new graduates no one can keep track of them for long.

So.” He gave her a small smile. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow to tell me your decision.”

“That’s not necessary, Sir,” Sansa replied. “I can tell you right now. I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is all about introducing Sansa. I thought it would be interesting if she met Petyr already having those skills for "playing the game" he teaches her in the books, here through being trained as a spy. Sansa here is older, about mid-twenties, and more along the lines of Dark Sansa - due to her backstory which we'll learn more about gradually, and her involvement with the Secret Service. I really wanted to show here that she is mysterious and guarded, even with people she trusts, like M. Even with her allegiance to the Crown, she is playing for herself.
> 
> My inspiration for a spy AU literally came from the title Goldfinger, which is of course the title of a James Bond film (one of the best of classic Bond!), and its similarity to Littlefinger. So, fair warning, I'm going to indulge myself with Bond references like the title of this chapter ;) Petyr and Sansa's relationship has always had that spy-master/spy-protégé type aspect to it and it just seemed too perfect an opportunity to pass up. Petyr will get his debut in a few chapters :)
> 
> My representation of the British Secret Service is by no means meant to be accurate - it reads much more like a James Bond script which is, obviously, fiction. So I'm mostly using creative license here to do a riff on the spy motif rather than an accurate portrayal of British Intelligence.


	2. Make me disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely meant to have a new chapter up sooner, but life kept getting in the way.... also this chapter ended up being a fair bit longer than I originally thought. A lot of things had to happen! Hope you enjoy :)

Only when M’s office was behind a series of corners and doorways did Sansa let herself relax. And she surprised herself at the emotion that crossed her face. 

It was a smile. 

She was, finally, going out in the field. And if her conversation with M was any indication, she was going to be collecting intel on the Lannisters.

Vengeance is sweet.

Sansa soon arrived at Q division, the entrance a set of dark, heavy doors. They looked nondescript, but she knew the glowing red dot on the access panel to the right contained some of the most advanced identification technology in the Secret Service. Q division was the birthplace of all the high end tech available to agents, from weaponry to communications technology.

She didn’t know who M’s contact was – he had told her to wait outside until he was able to let her in. She was just preparing herself for a long wait when she heard a beep, and the door on the left swung open towards her. 

A surprisingly young man with a mop of dark hair leaned into the hallway. “Ms. Stark,” he said, “I’m Q. Come on in.”

He held open the door as she walked past him into a smaller antechamber, empty except for an elevator across the room. Q walked up and placed his hand on a square on the silver doors placed about chest height, and they slid open. 

“Handprint scanner,” he explained as they entered the elevator. It started it’s decent without him pushing any buttons. “More variability and harder to replicate than just a finger.”

Sansa nodded politely and her gaze drifted, landing on the digital numbers rapidly increasing. They were going deeper into Q division than she’d ever gone. 

“Blonde or brunette?” Q suddenly spoke into the silence. 

“Excuse me?” she glanced at him, but he was staring up at the red numbers above the door. 

“For your new identity. You’re going to have to dye your hair,” he replied. The elevator slowed to a stop, the doors gliding open. He turned to look at her and continued, “Your natural colour is a bit… memorable.”

“Oh… of course. Uh, maybe blonde?” she replied as they entered a large, starkly lit lab. She had to admit, his question caught her by surprise, although she knew it shouldn’t have – obviously she had to change her look for her new identity. Her red hair was her trademark. 

“Hmm,” was the only response she received, and she was slightly amused. He walked towards a table set up with multiple computer monitors and a scattering of equipment and she followed.

“So what have you got for me?” she asked. 

“I’ll be sending you a briefing report on your first mission tonight,” he answered, focused on logging in to the computer. “Along with the file containing your new identity. But for now, I’m going to outfit you with some standard gear for an extended undercover. There will be more information in the briefing, but M’s assigned you to an indefinite intelligence op in the Tyrell’s estate.”

Sansa’s interest was piqued. She didn’t know much about the Tyrells, except that they were a family rapidly rising in social status here in Britain. Which, of course, meant that the Lannisters would soon have their eye on them if they didn’t already. Gaining intelligence from their perspective was an intriguing way of reaching the Lannisters indirectly. 

“I look forward to reading it,” she said. 

Q then led her through the equipment. It wasn’t much, as she would have to be as discrete as possible. There was a smartphone with an encrypted connection to Q that she would use to send updates during her assignment, as well as her personal favourites - a sleek necklace with a black pendant that could emit a high-frequency burst to disable recording devices and security cameras, and a small pistol that could easily be concealed in a handbag or under tight clothing.

“Just a few fun things,” Q concluded. “It’s hard to predict what you’ll need but we try our best.”

“Thanks,” Sansa said, pleased with her new gear. It was definitely a perk of being in the Secret Service. 

“Now a couple things relating to your new identity, then we’ll be done,” Q said, walking to the back of the room. Sansa followed him past rows of computers and other equipment, and they entered a small, dark room with a single chair in the middle. 

“I do apologize for this part,” Q said ruefully. “But its standard procedure now ever since the government has started tracking agents to appease the public’s endless need for accountability. It’s a tattoo of your personal identification number. It’s permanent, but the ink is heat activated – it’ll only be visible when it’s heated above average skin temperature. My own invention. They can mandate permanent identification markings but we don’t have to make it easy for them,” he said with a smirk, and Sansa smiled back. “Now, if you’ll take a seat, the tattoo is applied with laser technology – won’t hurt at all.”

Sansa sat down in the chair, and looked up – there was a glowing red light above her, making her feel like she was in some eerie dentist’s office. She pulled back the neckline on her shirt, exposing her right collarbone, then Q pushed a button and the light came closer. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes,” Q said, walking towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it and come back then.” Sansa nodded, and he left the room, leaving her alone. Her eyes eventually closed and her mind began to wander...

She had played the long game. Those first few years after her family’s death she had lived in ignorance, believing they had died in the fire that consumed the Stark estate. As she was shuffled from one foster house to another, it had soon became easier to forget.

She hadn’t known then that the Secret Service already had their eye on her.

She had been numb. Hadn’t questioned why she was taken out of public school and enrolled in online classes (it had even seemed logical, since she moved around so much). She had become independent, and in doing so had built a wall between herself and the outside world. 

Until someone had decided it was time to break them down. 

It was an innocuously placed newspaper on the kitchen table, one of many tables that blurred together in her memories. “The Stark tragedy: Five years later”, it read, somehow both sensationalist and clinical in the bold black print. Why she read it she hadn’t quite known, perhaps it was the surge of anger she felt at her family’s deaths being today’s subject of breakfast conversation – but when she looked back it had probably been because she had felt, and time that had been blurred together ( _had it really been five years?_ ) now jolted into a sudden clarity.

Because she hadn’t known that the world thought her dead, along with the rest of her family. That the legacy of the Stark estate and the business dealings of her father had been the subject of public gossip for half a decade. And, added almost as an afterthought, a speculation, a scandalous what if at the end of the article – that the Lannisters had been on trial for numerous aspects relating to her family’s deaths, but never prosecuted.

She had come back to life that day. And, well, done some things she wasn’t entirely proud of as she charged headlong into her second life as clumsily as a newborn. That was when the Secret Service decided to come calling, either to stop her from causing a national incident and destroying herself in the process or because they truly recognized her potential – she still wasn’t entirely sure which.

It was worth the wait. Her training in the Secret Service was more than she could have hoped for. She felt confident in her abilities and enjoyed having something she was good at. And she knew she was better equipped to take down the Lannisters – it was always her unspoken goal, as she knew M suspected it was. But in this new era of public accountability and oversight she had learned to keep it to herself. Unfortunately whoever decided she was too biased to be placed on a Lannister mission was right – she knew she wouldn’t hesitate to take any chance she had to tear them apart. 

Which is why her new identity was a necessity. Undoubtedly M had thought it would be a difficult choice to give up her family name – but the Starks to her were frozen in time somewhere in her memories, happy and together. She had already been reborn once and that was no longer who she was. 

A new identity seemed almost more fitting.

Suddenly the machine beeped and the red light rose up above her head once more, before turning off completely. Sansa looked down, and could see the numbers ‘00313’ stamped across her collarbone in light blue. The skin around it was warm to the touch. Just then Q came back into the room, holding a folder and a small box. “It’ll fade in a few minutes,” he said when he saw her examining the new tattoo. She adjusted her shirt and saw that the numbers were well hidden by her neckline.

Q pulled two pages from the folder and handed them to her. Each was her standard headshot, edited to change her hair colour from its usual red – one blonde and one brunette. “I know you said blonde, but I really think you should consider going darker – it’ll be easier to maintain and, to be honest, it suits you,” he quipped. Sansa had to agree. The girl with blonde hair looked washed out and boring – but the dark, almost black hair Q had digitally added made her look intelligent and mysterious. 

“Agreed,” she said, smiling at Q. She was beginning to like him, despite the slightly self-assured attitude and direct remarks.

“Excellent, then you’ll be needing this,” he said as he handed her the box – it was hair dye. She grinned inwardly at his confidence that he hadn’t brought a box of blonde as well – he’d obviously assumed she would agree with him. “Tonight would be a good time to get started on your makeover, and by the time you are done I will have sent you your mission brief and new identity profile.”

“Alright, Q,” she gave him one last smile and got up to leave. “And thanks for everything.” 

He was right – she had just finished rinsing the dye out of her hair when her tablet beeped. She sat down on her bed ( _how many more nights until this wasn’t her bed anymore?_ ) and opened up the file transfer. Her new identity profile filled the screen, and her own face stared back at her, the dark hair still foreign to her eyes. Her gaze slid off the photo and drifted to the left, reading the text that was her new identity. 

_Agent 00313: Alayne Stone. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While M in the first chapter was kind of faceless, Q here is definitely based off the new Q from Skyfall and Spectre. I think he is such a great character. The chapter title is what James says to Q in Spectre - I thought it was fitting :)
> 
> I realized it was important to have a bit more of Sansa's backstory before she launches into her mission, so we have an idea of what motivates her and what she is leaving behind as she becomes Alayne. Now that she's all geared up and ready to go though, expect her to be taking on her undercover op and meeting some new characters in the next chapter!


	3. Call Me Alayne

The estate was lush with colours, the bright green of the oak and maple trees reaching into the crisp, azure sky. The soft blush tones of roses lined the walkways leading up to warm beige of the stone walls, a picturesque view that somehow seemed frozen in time. 

It was the touches of harsher, saturated colours that brought the scene into the present - the louder oranges and reds of tulips and tiger lilies, along with the dark indigos and violets of more exotic flowers that took over as the gardens crept up to the main house. That, and the sleek, black sedan making its slow journey down the crushed gravel driveway, sending spirals of dust into the air behind it that blocked out the sun.

The driveway opened up at the grandiose entrance to the central building, and the sedan curved gracefully with the road until it was stopped in front of the wide double doors, the estate framing it in perfect symmetry. The passenger side rear door opened, and a young, dark-haired woman stepped out. She wore cropped navy trousers and a simple white blouse, her hair tied off her face in an elegant half twist. 

Her gaze was immediately drawn to the intricate carvings that adorned the doors – at first glance it was roses, all roses – but if you looked closer the backdrop was an endless forest of thorns. As she stared at them in awe she didn’t notice that the driver had come up to her from around the back of the car.

“Ahem… Miss?” he asked.

Startled, she turned around. “Oh, sorry!” she replied. “Was I supposed to let you open the door? I’m still not used to all of this,” she conceded with a small smile. 

“Yes, well,” he said, softening slightly, giving her a smile of his own. “Just allow me to get your bags.”

“Yes of course,” she smiled again before turning back to the doors, which had begun to open during their brief exchange.

“Miss Stone!” she heard the voice, it was warm and jovial, and soon the body followed. She was a bit older than herself, with golden brown hair falling in loose curls down her back. She wore a simple summer dress of emerald green, emphasizing the blue in her eyes - they seemed to radiate kindness as she smiled at the new arrival on her doorstep. “I am so pleased that you are finally here.”

“Thank you so much, Miss Tyrell,” the dark-haired girl replied in kind. “And please, call me Alayne.” 

“Then you must call me Margaery.” The two grinned at each other, and Margaery led Alayne through the doorway, tangles of carved thorns surrounding them on either side.

The foyer was brightly lit, windows stretching to the ceiling that was at least 30 feet above them, letting in sunlight that warmed the stone walls. Intricate details were everywhere, from the roses etched into the stone columns to the forests of marble vines that twisted along the tiled floor, a deep green only slightly muted by time. The Tyrell family had owned this estate for nearly 300 years, and the first Lady Tyrell had adored roses, it was said. When her new husband had built this estate he had charged the architects and artists to fill his wife’s home with the flower that had won her affection, and they did not disappoint. But their happy marriage did not last long, if the stories were true – the couple had often fought in the later years of their marriage, leading the Lady Tyrell to write to her good friend that she was “trapped in the thorns of an unhappy marriage”. However much truth that story held, it caught like wildfire – the estate had been called the House of Thorns by the surrounding towns ever since.

“I had heard the stories, of course,” Alayne said, taking in her surroundings with admiration. “But with stories it is easy to not quite believe them – being here, the very walls seem to speak their history.” All the stories of the great families of England were common knowledge, and even Alayne Stone, a girl with minor social standing, had grown up hearing them. 

“Yes, even within my own family, the tales seem to grow taller with each passing generation,” Margaery replied with a sly smile. “I can only imagine what it must be to someone who has so far been an outsider. So tell me, was it your Uncle’s wish that you use your inheritance to try and make a life in high society?”

Alayne’s Uncle, Jon Arryn, had named her his sole heir after his death, almost a month ago now. He had spent time at the House of Thorns in his youth, though, and had been close with Olenna Tyrell before he married and moved up North. He had been somewhat of a recluse, however, these past two decades since the deaths of his wife and son - and Alayne Stone, a distant cousin in truth, had been the only remaining family in his household. An orphan herself, he had taken her in, and she had tended to him in his last years of ailing health until his death. 

Alayne shyly turned away from the other girl. “I don’t think it was quite what he had in mind, no,” she admitted. “But he always talked about his time in society with fondness, and especially here in the south. He said he had never felt as happy as when he was out here in the sunshine. It was always a dream of mine, growing up, to see all the wonderful places he told me about – but he said society had its price, and always tried to dissuade me from it. I knew though once he had passed and left me an inheritance that I had to experience it for myself.” Alayne turned back to Margaery suddenly, snapped out of her reverie. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble,” she said with a light laugh. “Now you basically know my whole life story!”

“Oh! Please don’t apologize – it’s clear you loved your Uncle very much. I did ask after all! And I was ever so pleased when my grandmother showed me your letter – society is small and it is so rare to make a new acquaintance, and to a girl of my age! This grand estate is certainly empty more often than not, and I am so happy to have a new friend. It will certainly make all the social engagements around here less of a bore” Margaery gave the other girl a warm smile, which Alayne couldn’t help but return.

By now they had reached the second floor, which was all tall windows and lush carpets, with glorious paintings adorning every wall. “I understand you are looking to settle nearby, but I hope you know you are very welcome to stay with us as long as you like until you find a suitable place,” Margaery continued. 

“I appreciate that a lot. Thank you,” Alayne said as they slowed to a stop outside one of the many doors lining the hallway. 

“This is your room,” Margaery said, handing Alayne a small, ornate key. I believe your belongings should already be in there. I’m sure you’d like to rest a bit and settle in. We’re having dinner at 7, then you can meet the rest of the family and our other guests.”

“Thank you,” Alayne said again. “I would like to rest a bit, and I wouldn’t mind some fresh air.”

“Oh! Of course, feel free to explore the house and the grounds as much as you please,” Margaery grinned. “I’ll see you at dinner.” With that, she left Alayne to her own devices, and walked back down the hallway.

Alayne looked down at the key in her hand. When she heard a door close behind Margaery, though, she put the key in her pocket, and traced their earlier footsteps until she was back at the main entrance of the estate. A footman was standing by the door, and she went up to him hesitatingly. “I’d just like to get a bit of fresh air, if that’s alright,” she smiled shyly. “Long day of travelling, and all.”

“Of course, Miss,” was the reply, and then she was outside once again.

The fresh air of course was lovely – the air was warm and smelled of salt, coming off the nearby ocean. However, that hadn’t been her main motivation. _Old habits die hard_ , she thought, and she focused her attention on the building. Rule number one of going undercover – know your exits. 

Alayne walked slowly around the estate at a measured pace – to any external observer, admiring the architecture, or the landscaping. But Alayne was carefully counting her steps, measuring distances, noting windows, the placement of doors. 

She had made her way three-quarters around the main building before she encountered anyone else. He was seated on a bench in a small rose garden, legs crossed, head bent over what appeared to be a notebook. He was slim, wearing a dark suit that looked too hot for this weather, with short dark hair touched by grey at the temples. His attention was entirely on whatever he was writing, and Alayne had half a mind to silently walk around him – she would much prefer to have Margaery’s introductions before jumping into conversations with unknown members of the household – but then suddenly it was too late. He looked up from his notebook and his gaze found hers.

In that second Alayne found herself at a loss of what to do next – usually she could read a person and then direct her actions accordingly. But this man – she couldn’t read him. His face was a mask. Her stared at her, and for once she had the feeling that she was being read as well. 

It was him who broke the moment. A sly smirk crept across his face, so well suited to his neatly trimmed moustache and beard, and he slowly closed up his notebook, tucking it into his jacket. “You must be Miss Stone,” he said as he stood and began to walk towards her.

“Yes,” she replied, regaining her confidence. He held out his hand and she took it. “And you are…?”

To her surprise, instead of a handshake, he turned their entwined palms and bending over slightly, placed a light kiss on the back of her hand. She felt a warm blush spread across her cheeks without her permission, and she had no time to recover control before he looked back up at her, grey-green eyes dancing mischievously, and answered, “Petyr Baelish. But you can call me Petyr”. 

She gave him a slightly astonished look in return ( _a totally reasonable response under the circumstances_ , she thought), although she doubted whether she could have hidden her shock even if she tried. She managed to free her hand and took a small step back, putting some space between them. 

“Pleased to meet you… Petyr. Are you a guest here at the House of Thorns as well?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I will be here for some time – I’m assisting the Tyrells with the financing of some of their new… business ventures.” Pausing, he took an almost imperceptible step closer to her, reclaiming most of the distance she had retreated, and she found herself looking straight into those grey-green eyes, that smirk lurking at the edges of her vision. “So I expect we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.”

And just as suddenly, he stepped away, and started walking back toward the house, leaving her standing in the garden of roses.

“See you at dinner, Alayne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends (hopefully) the busiest couple weeks of my life this summer - I'm hoping to update weekly from now on! I'll certainly need something to fill the vacuum of Petyr and Sansa once season 6 is done ;)
> 
> I really enjoyed writing the scenery and the history of the House of Thornes. The Tyrells are an old family with old money here but are just starting to get into modern business. I also had some fun making up Alayne's backstory - Jon Arryn seemed like the perfect fit for a wealthy relation that could feasibly choose to remove himself from high society and basically live as a hermit, meaning no one would really know if he had raised a young girl or not. I'm deviating from the show/books based on which characters know each other, are alive or dead, etc (no Lysa or Robin in this fic!) so that it fits with the story, so I hope you are following along alright!
> 
> This could have easily been a shorter chapter but I was anxious to introduce Petyr!I love the idea that Sansa (now Alayne) has spent most of her life so far being the best at hiding emotions and also reading other people - until she meets Petyr. I'm really looking forward to writing more of him and Alayne - they've both got some secrets and it's going to be a fun ride as we figure them all out :) 
> 
> Hope you are enjoying so far - as mentioned I am new to this whole writing fics thing so comments are very welcome!


	4. Wait 'til you get to my teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Last week I was still in shock about the season 6 finale and my mind was stuck there. But now I'm back to this fic. Hope you enjoy :)

She stared at the contents of her luggage strewn out on the soft covers of her new bed. Her casual clothing sat in a pile, folded and untouched, near the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, while dinner attire lay in a row across the bottom, none quite making up a complete outfit. Alayne stood over them, and she stared – but her mind was elsewhere. 

That man in the garden. Petyr Baelish. He was an unknown. The Tyrell estate was highly secure – none of the reconnaissance done by Q division prior to her mission had been able to determine much about the day-to-day activities of the family, never mind any guests who were present. And it would have been inappropriate to ask in her letter to Margaery’s grandmother, Olenna, when she had written to introduce herself as Alayne Stone, seeking to stay with a respectable family while she was making her start in society.

And now there was this man, and she knew he would be trouble – because no one was that good at hiding their thoughts unless they had a reason to hide them. It was a skill she knew well.

Thinking back on their encounter, she inwardly cursed at the memory of how she had lost control so easily, caught off guard by his blatant assessment of her. She had been arrogant to assume that she would come here and have her skills unmatched. These people, these families, have been playing the game for centuries – she would not make that mistake again.

Still, Baelish was not a name that was familiar to her – not one of the old families, at least. He was likely almost as new to this world as Alayne was, and she wondered at his motives for being here.

Alayne glanced at her smartphone, sitting on the nightstand, that contained her secure connection to Q division. She could get them to run the name – but she hesitated. She was hours into her first mission, and the logical part of her knew it may not look good if she was already calling in for intel. 

Another part of her, though, was itching to have another go at Petyr Baelish. She was loathe to admit he bested her with his overly familiar introduction and smirking smile. She wanted a rematch.

It was with thoughts of those grey-green eyes that she finally chose her dress for dinner – a stormy green gown that cascaded to the floor. As she fixed her hair in the mirror she smiled at her reflection, a smirk of her own to rival the one she was about to face. _Time for round two_ , she thought, and turned away. 

\-------

She was back in the main foyer, trying to remember which direction led to the dining room, when Margaery found her. She had changed into a golden gown, simple but for the plunging neckline. Alayne found herself smiling – evidently, the eldest Tyrell daughter had no qualms about breaking the more traditional fashion that dominated most of the rest of high society. “You look lovely,” Alayne complimented as the other girl approached. 

“As do you,” Margaery replied, again with that warm smile, and Alayne followed her down the hall.

“We’ve really got quite the dinner party tonight – your arrival was perfect timing,” Margaery continued as they neared the dining room. “It’s usually just the three of us, you see - My father, grandmother, and I. But my brother Loras is home from his internship, and my father’s financial advisor has just recently arrived as well…”

At that moment they entered the dining room, decadent but tastefully decorated, with large windows overlooking the main garden. The rose motifs that gave the estate its name were present here in force, from the golden vines that enveloped the lightly painted walls to the colourful petals that adorned the porcelain table ware. 

But Alayne scarcely had time to appreciate the décor before her gaze was interrupted by grey-green eyes, and she felt something in her stomach clench. “Ah yes,” she heard Margaery say, “Alayne, this is Petyr Baelish…”

“We’ve met, actually,” he replied. “This afternoon in the garden. Lovely to see you again, Alayne.” He gave her one of those smirks before turning away and continuing, “And Margaery, you look stunning as always.” 

“Thank you, Petyr,” Margaery smiled back sincerely, effortlessly charming. _She’s good_ , Alayne had time to think, before she was led across the room to meet the rest of the Tyrell family. 

“So this is the girl Jon Arryn kept secret for all those years,” Olenna Tyrell greeted them. Margaery’s grandmother was old but Alayne could immediately see she held the authority in this family. “Yes, grandmother, this is Alayne Stone,” Margaery graciously replied, although Alayne could tell she found her grandmother’s remark amusing. 

“Thank you so much for hosting me,” Alayne said, putting warmth behind her words. “I’m very grateful for your hospitality.”

“Yes, well, though I’m sure Jon would turn over in his grave at the thought of another innocent girl joining society, I’m hope he would find some solace in the fact that you are here and not in the hands of some other, more treacherous family. But I suppose we do what we have to do,” and she finished this remark with a pointed look at Loras, Margaery’s brother, who seemed to shrink under her scrutiny.

Margaery only laughed and said, “Grandmother, you will frighten our guests away. Why don’t we all move to the table for dinner before we are left with a party half this size.”

In the disorder that followed as everyone moved to their seats, Margaery leaned over to Alayne and said under her breath, “Loras is interning with the Lannisters. Obviously grandmother is displeased with the idea.” She gave the other girl a wink before heading off to her own seat.

Alayne found herself seated beside Loras, with Margaery’s father Mace Tyrell on her left at the head of the table. Olenna sat at the other end, and Margaery sat across the table from her brother. Alayne found herself staring across the table at a smirking Petyr Baelish.

_Fuck._

He was always watching her. It was disconcerting. She found she had trouble concentrating through the soups and salads. She must have answered Olenna’s questions about her plans to settle in the area, but what she had said exactly she couldn’t say. It wasn’t until the first course came, and a delicious Southern wine with it, that Alayne found herself regaining control. 

Olenna was berating Loras again. “Grandmother, it is an internship. An opportunity to learn and make connections. I am not selling my allegiance to the Lannisters,” Loras argued wearily. Clearly he had had to make his case many times before.

“Oh, I think you are, not that I can blame you for it,” she tossed back. “No matter how much I disagree with them it’s clear we need their connections if this family is going to be pulled out of the dark ages and have any sort of future.”

While the Tyrells all sat silently fuming, Petyr decided to stoke the fire. “Certainly the future is important,” he interjected smoothly. “But the past is what holds families together. I have always thought that the great families find strength and success by staying true to their traditions, and to each other – wouldn’t you agree, Mace?” and with that, he turned to head of the table, and Alayne could see the mischief dancing in his eyes. 

Mace, though honourable, clearly wasn’t following the politics of the discussion that had apparently divided his family. “Why, yes,” he hesitatingly agreed. “Loras, perhaps you should seek an internship closer to home... With the Tarlys perhaps..."

Alayne could see Loras bristling as his father turned against him, and felt the tension in the room go up a notch. _My turn_ , she thought.

“Surely there are other paths to success, though,” she interrupted with a sweet smile. “For if people can only find strength in their family traditions, where does that leave people who have no family traditions to draw upon? Perhaps you could offer some advice, Mr. Baelish?”

The table was silent for a heartbeat, before Olenna burst into laughter. “I like this girl,” Olenna said with a laugh to no one in particular. “Well, with wits that sharp you’ll be more prepared to climb the social ladder than most. You may have some competition, Baelish!”

Alayne had felt like she’d won that round, but when she looked back at Petyr, he was leaning back in his chair smirking at her, looking like he enjoyed every minute. Maybe it was the buzz of the wine or the rush that comes from a battle of the wits, but as she stared back at him she couldn’t help feeling that she had been on the tipping point of something dangerous. She’d fallen off the edge – and she was excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sensing that Petyr and Alayne are both a bit competitive here, trying to outwit each other essentially. Alayne is pretty confident in herself and her skills as an undercover agent, and she is like Petyr in that she lives for the game and relishes challenges... which is part of the reason she can't get Petyr out of her head ;) 
> 
> I love Petyr when he is mischievous and shady. He's got a head start in this game and holds a lot of secrets that Alayne doesn't know about yet. Right now he's just enjoying watching her enter the game and as always, scheming for the future...
> 
> I was a bit worried about writing the whole Tyrell family - I wanted to do them justice, especially Olenna, even though they won't all be major characters. So I hope the intros and family dinner were at least a bit entertaining :)


End file.
